


O Brother, Where Art Thou?

by Lothiriel84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This ‘looking after’ thing is definitely not his area, and he’s irrationally annoyed at his brother for putting them both in such an unfamiliar position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Brother, Where Art Thou?

He’s being forced to attend a private meeting with the prime minister – the term ‘dull’ doesn’t even begin to cover it – when his razor-sharp senses alert him and he reacts without any conscious decision on his part.

A moment later all hell breaks loose, and he finds himself dragging his half-unconscious brother away from what is now a crime scene. ‘Terrorist attack,’ he hears people shout, but he doesn’t give a damn about it at this moment in time; Mycroft stumbles along with him until his knees give way and they sink to the floor together, his mind already working out each and every possible outcome of the situation.

 

* * *

He spends the next twenty-six hours in a waiting room at the hospital, turning a particularly vicious glare on Anthea when she dares to suggest he’d better go home and get some rest. It’s only when the doctors announce that his brother will live that he gives in to exhaustion and sinks into a deep slumber, heedless of the discomfort of the plastic chairs some idiot had decided to put in there.

When he wakes up he finds Mycroft’s PA hovering about with a fresh cup of coffee, which he promptly accepts with a grateful nod of his head.

 

* * *

It’s DI Lestrade who solves the case, dismantling the terrorist cell and securing the culprits safely behind bars. Sherlock drops a few clues here and there, but he mostly stays at Mycroft’s side looking after the frail man that once was his irritating brother – is still his irritating brother, even if he doesn’t remember it.

“I don’t need a minder,” Mycroft protests tetchily. “I can manage on my own.”

“Of course you can,” he snaps. “Except that you’re suffering from post-traumatic amnesia, and therefore don’t even know who you are.”

“And how is arguing with a sibling supposed to help, pray?”

“I hate you,” Sherlock shouts, banging the door on his way out and swallowing the unaccountable lump that is sitting at the back of his throat. This ‘looking after’ thing is definitely not his area, and he’s irrationally annoyed at his brother for putting them both in such an unfamiliar position; it’s only after he locks himself in the bathroom that he angrily wipes away the treacherous tears that are stinging in his eyes and reminds himself that caring is never an advantage.

 

* * *

“You’re upset.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorts disdainfully; however, it’s his brother’s memory that’s been affected, not his deductive skills, and he sees Mycroft roll his eyes in mock frustration.

“You said you didn’t care, and yet your actions are contradicting your statement.”

“Go to hell,” he hisses, and yet he doesn’t pull away when his brother’s fingers close around his wrist. Their eyes meet and he feels as if he’s being stripped bare under that searching gaze; the truth is that he’s always cared, no matter that Mycroft’s constant meddling has driven him up the walls on more than one occasion.

“I almost did, apparently,” his insufferable sibling retorts back, and he wrenches his wrist free more forcefully than the situation would require.

 

* * *

He jolts awake at some point during the night, his watchful instincts so ingrained that he couldn’t turn them off even if he wanted to.

“Mycroft?” he murmurs to the room at large, until he discerns a soft breathing coming from a few feet to his right. It occurs to him that their roles are kind of reversed now – it’s him that his brother seeks out in the dead of the night instead of the other way round.

“I – had a dream,” Mycroft mutters in a hushed voice. “Redbeard.”

Sherlock pauses, straining his eyes to see in the dark. “What about Redbeard?”

“It was your dog, wasn’t it?” His brother’s tone is somewhat apologetic now. “I’m sorry.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, but he doesn’t really flinch when a warm hand comes to rest on his cheek in a stilted gesture of affection.


End file.
